Monday, December 14, 2015

The Gesture: Part 1

The gesture
is everything, says everything.The hand
on the heart is not a sign of protection or hiding; at least not this
time.It is an expression of grief, and
the grief arises out of shame.

My mother,
coming of age during the Depression and birthing me soon after the Holocaust,
wanted only to see me survive and thrive.She saw me as willful, fiery, carrying the tempestuous temper of my
father, which in her eyes would not serve me in this world.It was not only fine but expected that I
would be smart, but my task was to avoid revealing too much intelligence or too
much spirit.In that way, I would be
acceptable and find a husband.Being too
much of anything – brilliant, impassioned, strong, ambitious – would be
disastrous for a woman.

My mother’s
way of instructing and socializing me was shaming.If that did not succeed, then outright sarcastic
ridicule was the rod used to avoid spoiling the child.

My
humiliated and diminished heart held onto the shame, shoving it down into its
deepest, remotest chambers.There it
quietly pulsed in rhythm with my heart, hidden yet present, waiting,
waiting.

Four of us
sat at a booth in a crowded coffee shop having Sunday morning breakfast: three abundant
plates of omelets, crispy hash browns and biscuits, and one pathetic bowl of
oatmeal.Mine.I was trying to heal a bout of esophageal pressure/pain
that had cropped up after a series of colds and the fatigue that followed our
annual Day of the Dead grief ritual.My
friend asked about how the ritual had gone, and I spoke about my regret over a
small misstep I had made during the ritual. I was pleased that I had had enough
maturity and awareness to admit my clumsiness and to make amends.But it had truly been a tiny failure in large
field of goodness.It is telling that
this is the story I chose to relate about the day.

When I
finished speaking, he asked if I realized that I had placed my hand over my
heart as I spoke - precisely where I was experiencing my physical distress.No. I was totally unaware of the gesture.

I had previously
thought that the discomfort in my chest was a result both of depletion and also
of taking a psychic hit that I saw as an energetic sword thrust into my heart by
the one whose feelings I had disregarded.There may be truth in that; a leader can easily become a target.But maybe it was directing me towards my
wound.What if it were a sign like an
arrow saying, “Hey, look over here!”What if my body had responded to my shame, self-judgment and feeling of
failure by tightening up my chest?

Surveying the road.

Or roads, I should say,

observing what is coming this way -

A limping figure, hard to see

at this distance.

Ah, her hand is over her heart,

this girl or old woman approaching.

“What does your gesture signify?”

we ask, Hecate and I.

“This is the place, the only place,”

she responds, shaking her head.

“Good,” we say.“That’s good.

This way or that way?”

She peers down one road, then the other.

“Does it matter?” she asks.

“Oh, yes.”

“Then I’ll go this way.”

And without hesitation, she proceeds

and quickly disappears from view.

I look at Hecate.

“Was that the right way?” I ask her.

She shrugs.

“Maybe a bit longer, but surer,

and with a view of the sea.”

I let out a sigh,

breath I did not even know

I was holding,

and notice my own hand

resting on my heart.

How much is
enough?This is the struggle.It is difficult to do what I am called to
do.It is even more of a challenge to
notice and give myself credit for what I do accomplish.How will the struggle change when the shame
underneath everything is exposed?

Here is
what is emerging: the desire and effort to be kind.Generally, being kind to others is not difficult.Being kind to myself?Another story.The gesture of hand on heart becomes the
token, the sign, the image for the new work.It does not differentiate between working for the children and
grandchildren and working to give the gift one has to give.Seeing how all the work is intertwined is
eye-opening.